


Slow Hands

by aussiebee



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Stiles, Confident Stiles, Hands, M/M, Pining Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2019-02-03 06:10:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12742563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aussiebee/pseuds/aussiebee
Summary: Derek is suddenly made aware of Stiles in an entirely new and uncomfortable way; specifically, his hands. His wide, strong, clever and dextrous hands.Derek is kinda screwed.





	Slow Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Interpol's 'Slow Hands', because Derek and Stiles are angsty losers like that.

It had started innocently enough, with an overheard conversation as Derek returned home one ordinary Tuesday.

“-it’s just getting ridiculous.”

“Preach. The typing, the pens, the handling of knives in the kitchen-”

“Of course you have a knife kink, Erica,” Lydia’s voice floated through the door of the loft and out to where Derek was climbing the last flight of stairs.

He could smell Kira, Erica and Lydia in the apartment, but none of the others, which was fairly unusual. It was nice hearing Erica getting along with the other girls, though; he thought that she had been missing female company, and as supportive of her as Boyd was, he wasn’t much for girl talk.

Albeit girl talk that had something to do with knives.

“Should we really be talking about this?” Kira giggled, her tone implying that she knew full well the answer.

“I think he’d be thrilled if he knew,” Lydia replied with a laugh of her own.

Derek slid the door open with no discernible effort, closing it behind himself as easily before passing the three sitting on his bed, laptop forgotten with the movie still playing as they gossipped.

“Who’d be thrilled about what?” he asked, walking around the living area to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water from the fridge.

“Stiles,” Lydia told him smirkingly.

“And his _hands_ ,” Erica emphasised.

Derek raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “What?”

“They’re… well, they’re-” Kira struggled.

“Enormous,” Erika finished for her. “Broad and strong, with long, looong fingers. They do things to a girl, you know?”

“You wish they did,” Lydia snorted, making the other two laugh.

“ _What?_ ” Derek asked again, utterly lost.

“Great arms, too,” Kira added, even as she blushed.

“The stupid overshirts are worth it when they’re rolled up to show off his forearms.”

“Have you noticed how tight his tees are getting now?” Erica added excitedly. “The boy’s got shoulders.”

“What?” Derek was honestly struggling at this point. Something just wasn’t computing.

“Stiles, Derek,” Lydia told him carelessly, waving a hand over her shoulder. “Try and keep up.”

“He’s grown up _good_ , Der,” Erica explained, her eyes a little glossy and distracted. “And his hands? Lordy.” She pretended to fan herself with a trashy magazine she picked up off the bed.

“And you know what they say about big hands,” Kira blushed, even as her grin widened.

“True, apparently,” Lydia confirmed. When the other two spun to look at her she pretended to be inspecting her manicure. “Lacrosse locker room talk. Let’s just say that Danny is impressed by some things he may have seen after practice a time or two.”

A reboot was going to be required as the girls squealed with laughter, because Derek’s brain was caught in a reboot loop. “Stilinski,” he said incredulously.

“Let’s face it,” Erica continued, ignoring Derek’s mental freeze, “he’d be great in bed. Eager to please, enthusiastic, tactile-”

“-and hung like a horse?” Kira interjected innocently, and the three of them fell about in a fit of giggles.

“Oh, you’re just messing around,” Derek said eventually, still barely following but regaining a little of his footing.

Until three heads -- blonde, brunette and redhead -- all stopped laughing and turned to stare at him with identical pitying expressions on their faces.

“We’re really not, Derek,” Erica told him with something approaching pity on her face. “Now go away, we need to talk some more about how hot Stiles is. Shoo.”

*

That had been the start of it, and to say Derek had been bewildered by the exchange was something of an understatement. The conversation had been bad enough, but it had gotten worse when Derek had begun… noticing.

Stiles was sitting on the sofa a few evenings later, laptop across his thighs and notepad beside him when Derek dropped down on his other side, close enough that they were pressed together shoulder to knee. “What’s that?”

“Brownie migration trends,” Stiles murmured distractedly, spinning his pen distractedly between his fingers as he alt-tabbed between displays, frowning slightly.

“Uh-” Derek began, but trailed off when he found his eyes tracking the repetitive and oddly-hypnotic movement of plastic.

And wow, had the girls been right. How had he never noticed before? Because Erica had been right; Stiles’ hands were huge, with broad palms, long and slender fingers with blunt nails. They were strong hands, capable hands, but as Derek watched him flip the pen around and around his fingers with dexterous skill he felt a flush begin to prickle up the back of his neck as he thought of the things the girls had hinted at.

“It’s not the Nemeton,” Stiles mused quietly, then tucked the pen into his hand and shifted his body towards Derek, sliding the laptop across so it rested on both their laps and his shoulder was tucked in under Derek’s arm. “What do these patterns say to you?” he asked, reaching out to tap the screen with a single slim finger.

“Oh, uh....” Derek began.

Stiles dropped his hand so the heel of it rested on Derek’s thigh while his fingertips drummed the metal next to the laptop’s trackpad. The rhythm was hypnotic, entrancing, and Derek couldn’t tear his eyes away.

“I know, right?” Stiles sighed, dropping his head back so it was resting on Derek’s shoulder. The music that had been playing all evening changed to something dark and moody, and Derek shut down his senses as much as he could to try and block Stiles’ scent from twisting its way directly into his pants.

_BRAIN_. Jesus.

“So, it’s not centred around the Nemeton,” Stiles muttered. Tap tap tap went his fingers. “But there’s definitely a pattern there.”

_Tap tap tap._

“What the hell is even there at the centre? I’m sure I remember reading something about Honeysuckle Lane recently.”

_Tap tap tap._

He closed his eyes and lifted his other hand to run his fingers over his chin and down his bared throat.

_Tap tap tap._

“Is it trows or brownies that kidnap musicians? Is there a music store or concert hall on Honeysuckle, maybe?”

_Tap tap tap._

Something like a low-level electrical pulse thrummed through Derek from his head to his toes and he felt it flip through his belly over and over.

_Tap Tap--_

“Christ, Stiles, will you _knock it off?_ ” Derek’s hand came down hard over Stiles’ wrapping those ridiculous fingers in his own in order to stop the incessant tapping.

“Oh, I… sorry?” Stiles said cautiously, his body suddenly tense where it had previously been loose-limbed and relaxed against Derek’s side. He shot an inscrutable look at Derek, who suddenly realised just how close they were sitting, and shifted away from Derek. “Maybe I should go.” They sat like that for a moment, Stiles’ eyes steady on Derek’s face.  
“I’m gonna need you to let me go first, big guy,” he said quietly, uncertain.

Derek frowned in confusion, then jerked his hand back when he realised he still had a hold of Stiles. He shoved to his feet without a word and stalked out of the room, the scent of confusion following him as he went.

*

They moved past that without too much further awkwardness, but there was definitely a new heightened sense of awareness to their interactions. And as much as Derek hated to admit it, it seemed that Erica, Lydia and Kira were right. Stiles’ hands did things to a girl.

And to Derek. Unfortunately.

He was also vaguely horrified to realise that he apparently shared Erica’s knife kink.

Stupid stir-fry.

Loud, tuneless singing was what alerted Derek to the fact that Stiles was in his apartment when he came home on Thursday night. He sighed and let himself in, entirely unsurprised to find Stiles in the kitchen, stereo on low and the wok set on the stovetop ready to be used. Stiles was head-and-shoulders deep in the fridge when Derek entered, though he managed to only drop half of the ingredients he’d gathered when he turned and found Derek standing silently behind him.

“A freaking _bell_ , Derek, I swear to _god_ ,” Stiles spat, his heart rate skyrocketing for a moment before his fright dissipated.

“What are you doing here, Stiles?”

“Uh, our stove at home isn’t working, and I’m trying to get meals done for the next week for my dad. I’ve got a mountain of assignments and lacrosse and with all the other random stuff we have going on I just wanted to make sure Dad had some healthy options.” He paused, unsure. “Sorry, I didn’t think you’d mind- should I go?”

Derek shrugged and sat at the stool at the counter. “Do I get any?”

“I’m pretty sure I can spare a little extra, as thanks.”

“Want me to help?”

“No, you sit. I’m just gonna chop up some vegetables for a stir-fry, if you’re happy with that?”

“Sounds fine.”

Stiles chattered as he worked, gathering everything together and washing it all off before selecting a knife from the drawer. A part of Derek settled, became contented with how familiar Stiles was in his home, with how comfortable he was in Derek’s space. It was easy having Stiles here, easy to allow himself to be used to it, more so than with any of the others.

But then Stiles picked up the knife again, and all that went to shit.

It was like something from the Food Network, Derek thought dully to himself, if the Food Network was suddenly collaborating with PornHub. There was no shortage of things Stiles was good at, that much he knew, but watching Stiles wield a knife like he was Gordon Ramsay was something else entirely.

Those clever fingers wrapped tightly around the handle of the knife, thumb and curled index finger gripping the tang as he began to chop methodically, finely mincing garlic, dicing red onions, julienning three colours of capsicum, carrot, chillies and ginger, as well as making short work of a handful of spring onions Derek hadn’t even known were in his fridge. He began turning the bottles and jars on the bench with his thumb and first two fingertips to read the labels, twisting the lids off and adding what he needed to a glass bowl to mix together, his broad palms spreading over the tight jar lids, knuckles briefly turning white with the strain, only to flip the released lids over a knuckle and into his palm to place on the bench.

Stiles looked up at Derek as he mixed what was in the bowl and grinned. “You should see what I can do with poker chips and coins,” he said, misinterpreting Derek’s stunned expression as he reached down to sweep the onion, garlic, chili and ginger into the bowl with the side of his hand sweeping the cutting board, displaying the full back of his hand to Derek.

_What the actual fuck?_ Derek thought to himself as his mouth went dry.

“Hey, you okay?” Stiles asked, leaning forward and placing his hands on the bench to bear his weight as he did so, “because you’re being awfully quiet tonight, even for you.”

Smooth nail beds. Short, blunt nails. A catalogue of small white scars over the skin, mostly concentrated around the knuckles. A small freckle on the webbing between thumb and index finger on his left hand. Another in the middle of the third joint of his left pinky. The flex of tendons beneath the thin skin was hypnotic, almost more so than the pulse that throbbed steadily in the vein that curled around his right wrist.

“Yeah,” Derek said breathlessly then again, firmer, as he mentally shook himself. “Uh, coin?”

The second Stiles’ eyes lit up, Derek knew he’d made a mistake.

“Yeah, man- as a hyper kid with perhaps a little too much time on my hand during school vacations I may have gotten a little into prestidigitation.”

“Sounds filthy,” Derek said without thinking, mortified when his ears caught up with his mouth, but he was rewarded by a rich chuckle from Stiles.

“It does, doesn’t it? Seriously though, got a quarter?”

Derek shoved a hand in his pocket and pulled it back out with a receipt for the carwash, the torn left half of a shopping list, a .22 shell casing and several coins. Stiles plucked the coin he wanted out of Derek’s palm, his fingertip barely grazing skin still enough for Derek to clench his jaw, and tossed the silver piece from hand to hand for a moment.

“God, I haven’t done anything like this for years,” he murmured thoughtfully. “I’m probably gonna stuff it up, so bear with me a moment, okay?” He took a moment to wipe his hands on his jeans and flex his (ridiculously long) fingers before holding the coin just so and then proceeded to [walk the coin](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uVVQWh_FwpU&t=3s) along the back of his knuckles, under the pinky to his thumb and then back again to repeat, slowly at first but gradually getting faster until it just looked like his fingers were undulating rhythmically as the coin rolled as though on waves.

“You ready for some magic, Hale?” he asked eventually, eyebrows raised expectantly.

“Wait, what was that you were just doing, then?”

“That was a warm up,” Stiles grinned. “Haven’t even gotten to the good part, yet.” He held the quarter between the thumb, index and middle fingers of his right hand, lifting it up so Derek could see. He then curled that hand back towards himself while bringing the left hand over to click above his right forearm, [somehow transferring the coin ](https://youtu.be/cmlyEhpf94o?t=9s)into his left hand as he did so. He repeated the action backwards with the same result: the coin transferring - invisibly and in midair - from left hand to right and back again, over and over, and Derek had literally no idea how he was doing it.

“I can tell by scent that you’re not using actual magic,” Derek murmured, “but even with my eyesight and reflexes I can’t see how you’re doing that.”

“I told you,” Stiles grinned, “it’s magic. The magic of boredom.”

“I feel like if you weren’t playing with a coin you would have done jazz hands for that.”

Stiles laughed again, a little louder this time, and Derek felt the corner of his mouth curl up. “It’s killing me not to, I hope you know.” He stopped his run through of that trick and turned so he was standing side-on to Derek, his right hand extended so the palm was facing Derek and the coin was held between Stiles’ thumb and index finger. He slowly dropped his hand a little and flicked it upwards and [just like that](https://youtu.be/cmlyEhpf94o?t=28s), the coin was gone. He wiggled his fingers for effect and then repeated the movement to have the coin return to his hand.

“Again,” Derek demanded, unable to look away.

“Didn’t you have an uncle to show you this stuff?” Stiles asked curiously as he did so.

“Peter wasn’t much for magic tricks or harmless fun,” Derek said wryly, staring at Stiles’ fingers.

“I would imagine not,” Stiles chuckled, then flicked to the coin to Derek who caught it, even though he was startled. “Oh, but how about this last one?” Stiles asked, lifting his hand to chest height, opening them so Derek could see they were empty, then proceeded to [wrap his left hand](https://youtu.be/-FLQTg6UzGo?t=12s) into a fist around his right thumb and index finger where they were pinched together and, after apparently searching his empty fist, both hands opening up to reveal another quarter. Derek looked back and forth between the one Stiles had flicked back to him where it was resting in his own palm and the one Stiles had begun rolling across his knuckles once more.

“I feel like I should be embarrassed by how impressed I am,” Derek muttered, catching the second coin that Stiles flipped to him.

“Don’t be,” Stiles said, blowing the tips of his fingers with a flourish, “these babies just know how to work the magic.”

And just like that the fascinated calm that had settled over Derek disappeared, leaving the pervasive awareness in its wake, and Derek scowled as Stiles went back to his cooking, pouring the contents of the bowl into the wok and tossing it as it began to sizzle.

“Cheer up, Derek, maybe I’ll teach you how to put your fingers to good use one day.”

The grin that crept across Stiles’ face meant that he knew exactly what kind of innuendo he was lacing his words with, but the easiness with which he said it meant that he had no idea what he was doing to Derek.

And Derek was no longer sure whether or not that was a good thing.  
  
* 

When Isaac, Erica and Boyd returned from the movies later that night, it was to find Derek sitting on the sofa and staring at a coin sitting in the palm of his hand.

“I think I might have a _thing_ for Stiles,” he announced without preamble.

“We know,” Erica said easily, heading straight for the fridge to grab a can of soda.

Boyd and Isaac dropped down into the chairs opposite Derek. “Not really a secret, Derek,” Boyd said slowly, a small smile curling his mouth.

“Except to Stiles,” Isaac added with a cheeky flash of a grin.

“So what are you going to do about it?” Erica asked, returning to perch on the arm of Boyd’s chair with her legs draped over his lap.

“Nothing,” Derek said, his tone not inviting discussion.

Not that Erica cared. “Don’t be a pussy, Derek,” she said with a laugh. “Go get you some of that firm, pale ass.”

“It concerns me sometimes, the way you phrase things,” Boyd told her.

“Yeah, it probably should,” she agreed easily. “My point stands, though,” she continued, looking up at Derek. “Those who dare, win.”

“And he’s in love with you, so it shouldn’t be that hard,” Isaac added, flicking through a book that had been left on the armchair.

The silence that fell over the room was profound.

“Yeah, you wanna run that one by us again?” Boyd said calmly, though his surprise was obvious.

“Overheard Stiles telling Scott that he didn't want to be set up with one of Allison’s friends because he was already interested in someone.”

“That doesn't mean anything, though, he could have been talking about anyone,” Erica protested.

“Sure,” Isaac agreed easily. “Except for the fact that Scott then began talking about Derek and Stiles blushed and began to smell like you two do,” he said, gesturing at Erica and Boyd with his chin.

There was silence for a beat, then Derek shook his head once, shortly. “That's not conclusive-”

“That, and the fact that I heard him say your name when he was jerking off last weekend.”

Erica’s laugh was bright and pleased, and Boyd’s snort was derisive. “Just happened to be walking past, did you?”

“Scott asked me to swing by and check on him on my way home from his place that afternoon,” Isaac scowled.

Derek felt his stomach swoop with something approaching anticipation, but he crushed it ruthlessly. “I don't want to talk about this,” he said stiffly, not meeting anyone's eyes.

“Look, try not to overthink it,” Erica said gently. “He likes you, Derek- that's obvious to anyone with eyes. And he's he's a teenager, so he's practically a sure thing!”

“I'm too old to even entertain the idea,” Derek protested, but even to his own ears the argument sounded weak.

“He's eighteen in a few weeks, man,” Isaac said suddenly. “After that, you don't really have an excuse, you know.” He got to his feet and walked off towards the bedrooms. “Sack up, Derek.”

Derek scowled after his attitudinal beta as Erica cracked up laughing and spilled her soda on the floor. Sometimes he really regretted all his life's choices.

*

Derek was going insane.

He had to be, to be so affected by Stiles’ ridiculous hands. They were just _hands_ , for crying out loud. Same as everyone else's.

And yet.

“What is happening? What are you doing?”

Stiles glanced up and rolled his eyes. “Flying. What does it _look_ like I'm doing?”

Derek couldn't look away from where Stiles was swiftly and neatly pulling a threaded needle through the dark fabric in his hands. Poke halfway through, slip a hand under, draw it through. Poke halfway through, lift a hand over, draw it through.

“Why.”

“That is a question in and of itself, yes,” Stiles said obnoxiously. “More to the point, why _not?_ ”

Dropping down onto the sofa next to Stiles and ignoring the sharp glare he received for jostling him, Derek continued to stare as Stiles worked.

“Mom couldn't sew to save her life,” Stiles remembered fondly. “But Dad was in the army and learned there, I guess, because he taught me.”

“Why?”

Stiles grinned briefly, apparently unaware of Derek’s intense scrutiny as he worked. “‘There are three things everyone should be able to do- cook a meal, find their way around a toolbox, and darn a sock’,” he quoted. “There's a reason my Jeep is still running, and it's because my Dad insisted that if I was gonna drive it, I needed to know how to fix it.”

And oh the images that conjured up! Stiles as a grease monkey, dirty and competent, broad shoulders displayed beneath a skintight tank and _oh God_ how had this gone so far beyond being a hand thing?

“Besides, it's cheaper than buying things new all the time, and we do need to save. Hospital bills were never a factor in mine and Scott’s friendship before he was turned.”

Even through his own vaguely lusty fantasy was Derek aware of the enormity of that falsehood, and he snorted derisively.

Stiles glanced up and grinned briefly. “Well, not as much, anyway.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a while,

“If you ever did need anything-” Derek began tentatively, but stopped when Stiles reached out and briefly squeezed his thigh with one of those beautiful hands.

“I know, Derek,” he said easily. “Thank you.”

And that was how they spent the rest of the evening, side by side on the sofa as Stiles mended clothes with Derek running fantasies through his head like a highlight reel.

*

“If you two don't sort this shit out I swear to god I'm gone,” Stiles snarled, incensed, as pain coursed through his entire body. “I am so fucking done with being a punching bag because of you two!”

It was just after two a.m. and he was standing in the McCall’s living room in front of a stricken Scott and a furious Derek, filthy, bloodstained, and utterly livid.

Derek could tell by the slope of Stiles’ shoulders that one was dislocated, and his face was pale with the pain. He held himself stiffly in an attempt not to move or jostle the joint, and the anger and bitterness pouring off him was like acid to Derek’s nose.

“Scott, go and see if your Mom can get away from the hospital for a bit to help with this, or if I should go in and see her. Derek, come with me.”

Scott began to protest but Stiles rounded on him. “Just do what I asked you to,” he snarled, so viciously angry that Scott actually pulled up short before spinning on his heel and disappearing out the front door.

Clasping his arm firmly to his side with a savage hiss, Stiles jerked his head at Derek and led him into the kitchen, pointing to the top of the fridge where a disturbingly well-stocked first aid kit was kept.

“There are popsicle sticks in the third drawer over there, he indicated with a jut of his chin. When Derek had fetched those he turned to find Stiles leaning forward with his head resting on the wall-mounted cabinet.

“I'm so tired, Derek,” he said, and his voice sounded so awfully defeated that Derek stumbled a step in his haste to reach Stiles’ side.

Stiles sighed and turned, tentatively letting go of his arm and sobbing out a shuddery exhalation of pain as he braced his back against the bench.

“I need you to splint my fingers,” he told Derek matter-of-factly. “The asshole with the .45 made sure to grind his heel down before I got away.”

Derek got everything ready as Stiles set himself up with the bruised and broken hand of his good arm resting gingerly on the counter top. Derek hesitated, but nodded firmly when Stiles met his eyes.

“Make sure you set them right,” Stiles warned. “I don't want to have to rebreak them to get this right.”

He took a moment as Derek carefully took his broken hand in a firm grip, then nodded once. Derek didn't hesitate, he straightened the crooked index finger with a sure, decisive movement. The only thing worse than the sensation of broken bone grinding against bone under his ministrations was the gut-punched groan Stiles couldn't keep back, and the way he turned ashen with the pain.

Derek drained it as quickly as he could, but it was an either/or type scenario- he could splint bone or he could drain pain… but he couldn't do it simultaneously. “Don't you want to wait for Scott to come back to-”

“No, I want this done, and then I want my shoulder relocated, and then I want to go home where neither of you will be for at least a week,” he managed to get out through gritted teeth. “Hurry. Up.”

Derek did as instructed, splinting the other three on the left, before hesitating on the one on the right.

“I don’t know if I can do this one without hurting your shoulder,” he admitted.

Stiles’ laugh was an ugly, mirthless sound, dry and pain-filled. “Can't hurt it much worse than it already is,” he panted, his face bloodless. “Do it.”

Kneeling on the floor and moving as carefully as he could, Derek did his best to keep from jostling the dislocated shoulder, but when he moved the broken ring finger back into alignment Stiles turned his head and vomited into the sink.

Derek moved as quickly as he could, splinting the finger with popsicle sticks and fastening them in place with strapping tape before letting his head fall forward against Stiles’ thigh, one hand wrapped around his ankle and the other tight on his hip where it had pushed beneath the filthy grey tee to make contact with skin to drain as much pain as fast as he could.

They stayed in silence like that for several minutes, Derek’s stomach churning with the phantom pain he was absorbing and feeling Stiles’ thigh trembling beneath his forehead.

“Enough,” Stiles eventually murmured, brushing his damaged left hand gently over the back of Derek’s head, and it felt like benediction.

Derek got to his feet and reached to turn on the sink tap before Stiles could try and do it himself. “I'm sorry,” he said softly, listening to Stiles shuffle across the kitchen to sit at the dining table, his movements as brittle as an old man’s.

“I know you are,” Stiles sighed. “But I don't know how much longer I can do this.”

“You don't have to-”

“Don't,” Stiles snapped, his anger flaring again. “That would be like me telling you that you didn't have to go to bat for Erica or Isaac or Boyd when they were in trouble. How you feel about them is how I feel about you and Scott, and Lydia and Allison and even that idiot Jackson. So don't you dare try and demean my efforts, weak and human as they may be.”

The silence was ringing, and Derek said nothing as he eventually roused himself to fetch painkillers and a glass of milk for Stiles to take them with. He made sure to stick a straw in the glass as well, and was rewarded by a small smile of thanks when he placed the glass on the table in front of Stiles. He held up the two white pills and Stiles opened his mouth without complaint for Derek to place them on his tongue.

They sat quietly together until Stiles lifted his left hand to rest on the table, his swollen fingers a grotesque mockery of their usual slender grace.

“Damn,” he sighed absently, turning it this way and that, observing the splints, mottled black, red and purple bruising, cuts and scrapes, the pinky nail torn almost entirely off. “I used to have nice hands.”

With infinite care Derek slid one palm beneath Stiles’ and used his other over the top to carefully settle the broken hand against his own.

“You've always had beautiful hands, and this doesn't change that,” he managed to get out past the dry ache of his throat. “Their beauty lies in their skill and gentleness and utility, Stiles, and the care they take with the things and people you love. Not the way they look.”

Something complicated flickered across Stiles’ face and for a moment his brow knit, his mouth curved downwards and he swallowed hard as though keeping back tears. But he just dropped his eyes to where their hands lay together and they were silent once more.

*

Several weeks after that and Derek was going insane. The group dynamic was mostly the same, with the exception of Derek and Scott who were actually making an effort to get along, both of them shaken by Stiles’ reaction to the confrontation in Scott’s house.

What had shifted was whatever it was between himself and Stiles. Derek didn't know if it was because of the events if the night itself, or Derek’s uncharacteristically heartfelt confession, but he was slowly going crazy.

On the surface of things, everything was normal. But so often now Derek felt the weight of Stiles’ gaze, and where once he would have dropped his eyes and thrown a quip, or blushed and deflected if caught out, he now just… looked back, considering, thoughtful, and intense in a way that left Derek shaken and breathless.

He was still Stiles, though, which was the most confusing part. He still laughed and joked and touched --jesus, the _touching_ \-- but everything had just shifted, somehow. Derek wasn't used to feeling so off-balance without having a direct reason for it to point at.

Like now, for instance.

They were all sitting down watching a movie, Stiles tucked up against Derek’s shoulder like usual, but he was oddly still, which was incredibly unsettling the way not much else about Stiles was.

“Hey,” he murmured suddenly, nudging Derek’s hip with his elbow. He wordlessly held his hands out to Derek who took them without question, unsure as to what Stiles was asking.

“Aching,” he murmured, and Derek immediately began drawing the subtle pain away from the still-healing bones. It was only when Stiles relaxed against him that Derek realised how tightly wound he had been.

“Thank you,” he breathed.

“Cold?” Derek asked, just as softly.

When Stiles nodded, Derek just drew him closer and slipped those clever, careful hands beneath his own shirt to rest against his belly and covered them with one of his own broader hands to try and share some warmth.

About two minutes after that, Stiles was asleep. When the movie ended no one looked surprised to see Stiles curled up with his head in Derek’s lap, hands tucked beneath his thigh. Reluctant to move and disturb him, Derek just waved to the rest as they left and watched as Lydia paused to brush gentle fingertips over Stiles’ forehead, flashing Derek a small smile as she left.

“Need anything before I go to bed?” Isaac asked with a quiet yawn.

“No thanks,” Derek told him. “We're good.”

Isaac nodded his head and left them there with a smile.

*

Holy hell, whoever thought it was a good idea to get Stiles rolling drunk for his eighteenth, well… Derek wasn't sure if he wanted to kiss them in thanks or kill them and then himself to put him out of his misery.

Turned out that a drunk Stiles was a handsy Stiles, and the objects of his affection were apparently anyone who wasn't Derek. He flitted from one partner to another, sliding a casual hand across a chest here, curling around a hip there, _trailing over the back of that blond asshole’s neck and what the hell, Stiles?_

Contrary to popular belief Derek wasn't in the habit of trying to delude himself about his own feelings, but envy, jealousy and unrequited whatever was difficult enough at the best of times, let alone when the person all of the above applied to was doing their best to drive him out of his mind.

He watched as Stiles returned to their party and threw his arms around Danny’s shoulders, the two beginning some complicated and primarily-gyrating dance that elicited catcalls from all around and had Erica giggling like a fool as she watched from Derek’s side at the bar where they waited to order drinks.

“Here,” he muttered in her ear, pressing a wad of bills into her hand. “Make sure he has a good night.”

Turning and searching his eyes with hers, Erica’s mouth tipped up at one corner and she nodded once. “You okay?”

“Not a fan of the smoke,” he told her, letting her read from that what she would as he turned, lifted a hand to Boyd in farewell and left the club.

He'd gotten less than a block away when he heard Stiles’ familiar footsteps jogging after him, falling into step beside him without so much as a stumble, and Derek looked at him sharply.

Sweet brown eyes stared back at him, unnerving and shockingly sober, and Derek pulled up short, leaning back against a darkened shopfront. “You haven’t been drinking.”

“Virgin vodka, lime and sodas per an early request to the bar,” Stiles told him easily.

“Then why-” Derek began, but cut himself off before he could incriminate himself utterly.

“I was trying to make you jealous,” Stiles told him bluntly. “I wanted you to be jealous.”

“Why?”

“Really?”

“Yes, really,” Derek ground out through gritted teeth.

“Because I wanted you to want me,” Stiles said simply, his eyes in shadow cast by the orange streetlights overhead. “I wanted to know if the one person in my life who really sees me actually liked what they saw. Wanted to know whether or not this thing we have is actually a thing, or if I'm projecting-”

“You're not-”

“-or if it's just an obsession with these.”

Stiles held his hands up, fingers spread and palms facing Derek as he looked steadily over the top of them to where Derek’s mouth had gone dry and he had apparently frozen in shock.

“Erica told me about the conversation she, Lydia and Kira had, and I extrapolated the rest,” Stiles told him, dropping his hands. “Then there was the night when you fixed my hands and it just… didn't feel right to tease you with it anymore. It seemed more real than I had realised and I started to pay real attention and I thought maybe it wasn't just me and…” He trailed off and chuckled awkwardly.

“Then again, maybe it is,” he sighed, hands clenching briefly into fists at his sides.

“It's not,” Derek said suddenly. “Stiles, it's not your hands. Not only your hands,” he amended, feeling the back of his neck burn with a blush. “This thing we have, whatever it is, however you want to classify it, is… to be honest, it terrifies me. Everything good I've ever had in my life- I've either lost it, or it's been taken from me. And you… there is nothing better than you, there is _nothing better than you!_ ”

It was exclaimed with such bewildered conviction that Stiles felt it like a blow to the chest. His eyes widened slightly and he opened his mouth as though to speak, but Derek beat him to it.

“I've spent a very long time being terrified of it, not because of you, but _for_ you. I have nothing to offer you, Stiles. I have no job, no family, no real pack or home or security. You get hurt for me and because of me and I will never forgive myself for that, but if something happened to you, if I lost you, I don't know if I could survive another loss like that. I literally have no idea what I would do. I couldn't stand the sight of myself after the fire, and it was the darkest period of my life. Having gotten the chance to find you and have you, and then lose you?” He trailed off.

They stood in silence, allowed a group of beglittered, miniskirted girls to pass between them, heads swivelling from one to the other only to erupt into giggles a few feet away.

“Okay first of all,” Stiles said, stepping out from within the streetlight’s orange pool as the girls got further away, “a lot of that is a load of horse shit. Most of what has happened to me has been my own inability to keep my nose out of things, or keep my mouth shut. I mean, that thing with my fingers,” he winced and flexed his hands reflexively, “that was because I got caught up in yours and Scott’s melodrama, yeah, but the rest of it? That's on me.

“And what's this ‘nothing to offer’ crap? Do I look like I expect a damn dowry? We are _making_ a family, Derek, for better or worse. Fucked up, broken, dysfunctional and uncommunicative as it may be at times, we are doing this, you and I. We're never going to get it right every time, but what counts is the trying. And you're disallowing our attempt to try before we've even made it! Do I get a say, at all? Or have you decided for both of us?”

He stared at Derek, hard and unyielding. “I love you, idiot, irrespective of all that stuff you just said. And even if for whatever reason this doesn't work out, we're solid, Derek. We're a good team, and I honestly believe that no matter what happens, we're going to own this Pack shit, okay? So even if you don't trust or believe in yourself, trust that. Trust in me.”

Derek had never felt as laid bare as he did in that moment. Stiles’ face firm and assured, the calm beat of his heart proving that he believed every word he said, the way he had edged closer as he spoke until the shared body heat in the small space left between them made Derek feel too big to fit his skin, but he was at a loss as to what action to take to banish the feeling.

“I want so badly to kiss you,” Stiles murmured, taking that last step to rest his palms on Derek’s chest. “May I, Derek?” he asked gently, sliding his hands up, fingertips caressing collarbones, palms and long fingers curling around the sides of his neck, gently carding through hair to cup the back of his head, even as careful thumbs smoothed over cheekbones, fanned over lashes, pressed against eyebrows.

He moved closer, his lips barely touching Derek’s, clean sweat, lime, club smoke and arousal filling Derek’s senses and almost bringing him to his knees.

“Will you let me?” Stiles murmured, his lips moving against Derek’s but not taking, never that. “Will you trust me?” He slid his nose alongside Derek’s and nuzzled softly at his cheek. “Can I keep you?” cheeks sliding together so that his lips caressed Derek’s ear, sending goosebumps skating across his skin.

“Stiles,” Derek sighed, soft and sweet, his palms pressed flat against the building behind him as Stiles broke him apart, one whispered request at a time.

“Tell me, Derek,” he pleaded. “Tell me I can. Say that you want me to.”

He dropped his mouth to Derek’s neck and carefully made his teeth felt against the stubbly skin, a barely-there rasp that had Derek’s hands flying up to clench convulsively at Stiles’ hips.

They stood like that for a long drawn out moment, Stiles’ mouth resting on Derek’s throat, Derek’s hands frozen on warm, smooth skin until he reached the tipping point, and he couldn't say no anymore.

“Stiles,” he breathed. “Yes.”

There was no hesitation Stiles’ part, but he absolutely took his time breaking Derek apart. He used his lips and tongue, his sighs and moans, the long, firm length of his entire body against Derek’s and those hands, those damnable, infuriating, bewitching and beguiling hands, to touch and tease and caress, to make sure that Derek knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was wanted, desired, needed.

“Can I come home with you?” Stiles murmured against his ear, his hands headed in Derek’s hair as he laved at Stiles’ suprasternal notch.

“You want to?” Derek asked, inhaling sharply as Stiles jerked his head back, firm but not rough.

“Never question my want for you,” Stiles warned him, voice rough with arousal and need as his eyes glittered darkly in the little light available. “But yes, Derek, I want to go home with you, and fall apart with you, and put us back together in a way that fits us both.”

“I want that too,” Derek told him.

“Want to feel your body over me, under me, inside of me,” Stills hissed, sliding his hand up underneath Derek’s thin white tee to run a thumb over and over his nipple in an apparent effort to drive him insane. “I want to put my hands on you, my mouth, Derek; want to taste you everywhere.”

Derek’s stomach flipped at Stiles’ words, cock aching with need as the sultry words slid over his skin and wound their way into the core of him.

“I want that,” Derek said without thinking. “All of it, please.”

“You beg so beautifully,” Stiles praised him, before taking a step back and running a shaking hand through his hair. “God, you ruin me,” he muttered, the honesty behind his words rocking Derek back onto his heels.

“Home,” he said, the word laden with meaning, and Stiles grinned, his teeth a flash of white in the dark.

He reached out and took Derek’s hand, lacing their fingers together as he led them towards the parking lot. He seemed almost shy as they walked together, the self-assurance that had been present while he was whispering filthy things in Derek’s ear apparently gone.

Derek slid an arm around Stiles’ waist as they walked and felt his cheeks heat when Stiles slid a hand into his back pocket. The jeans were tight to begin with, and Derek felt every inch of Stiles’ hand where it slid down to curve around his left ass cheek.

“You're doing that on purpose,” Derek murmured as they walked.

“Yes, I am,” Stiles agreed easily. “Do you know how long I've wanted to touch you, Derek?”

“Tell me.”

So Stiles did.

 

They managed to keep their hands mostly to themselves on the drive back to the loft, but as soon as they were inside the loft Stiles had a hand on Derek’s hip, the other on his shoulder and spun him around so his front was pressed to the door.

“I want you to fuck me, Derek,” he murmured, plastering himself along Derek’s back, pinning his hands above his head with one hand and sliding Derek shirt up with the other.

Derek could feel Stiles’ heart racing against his back and the hard line of his dick against his ass, and he felt like he'd been bound and tied. “Okay, yeah. Yeah, Stiles,” he groaned.

“Can I-”

“Yes, anything,” Derek said immediately, and was rewarded with a rumbling laugh against his back.

“Be careful giving me carte blanche like that,” Stiles murmured. “Who knows what I'll be tempted to do.”

“Anything, everything, I want all of it,” Derek promised breathlessly.

Stiles stilled against him, hand spread wide and firm across his chest. “Promise?”

The charge in the air became positively electric. “Promise.”

The hand on his chest moved slowly downwards, and with a cautionary squeeze against his wrists, warning him to leave his hands in place, Stiles dragged his other hand down the bunched muscle of Derek’s extended arm and shoulder, over his shoulder blade and down the back of his ribs to curl around his waist and join the other at the button of his jeans.

The teeth of his zipper pressed uncomfortably into his erection, but the way Stiles’ fingertips danced along the denim-clad bulge made it worth the discomfort. Talented fingers teased at waistband before flicking the button open, trailing along lightly-furred skin before hesitating, breath hitching.

“Commando?”

His mind a haze of want and lust, it took Derek a moment to parse his meaning. “Most of the time, yeah.”

Stiles groaned and dropped his face to rub at the base of Derek’s neck. “You're killing me, Derek,” he gritted out. “It's like every fantasy I've ever had about you is coming to life.”

“You… you fantasised about me?” Derek laughed, cutting himself off with a groan as Stiles’ hands unzipped his fly and pulled the front of his jeans open to carefully extract his cock, wrapping carefully around it and sliding experimentally from tip to groin and back up again.

“Oh yes, I certainly did. Do. Often. I imagine you like this, so good for me and letting me do what I want to you. I dream about you holding me down and fucking me open, sucking marks into my skin; you've seen how I bruise- can you imagine leaving marks on me so everyone who sees them knows I'm yours? Knows that I'm claimed?”

At those words, so silkily delivered, Derek felt his cock pulse in Stiles’ sure grip. Stiles grinned and pressed teeth briefly into the pale skin beneath Derek’s hairline as the hand not on his cock dipped lower to cup his balls, already firm and starting to draw upwards.

“I think about how smooth your dick would feel on my tongue, the salty, bitter flavour of your come all I can taste. I think about your hands holding my head still as you slide this gorgeous cock in and out of my mouth, watching me as you do it. Of you tasting me, with your fingers in my ass making me squirm.”

Fuck, how was he so close already just from a five minute hand job and some filthy words whispered in his ear? But Derek knew it was more than that, more even than the reassuring little kisses Stiles dropped onto any skin he could reach as he spoke, the way he was handling Derek so carefully, reverentially, as though he was something special to be cared for.

“I'm close,” he warned Stiles suddenly.

“Like this?” he asked, his own voice tight.

“Can we… can I kiss you?” Derek asked in and rush, and before the request had even finished he found himself with his back pressed to the door and Stiles’ mouth on his, hot, greedy, demanding and utterly dirty as his hands continued to work Derek into a jellied pile of general uselessness.

“Here, just for a sec,” Stiles said suddenly, grabbing Derek’s left hand and bringing it forward for him to stroke himself. Stiles used the time to fumble with his own fly, barely getting his cock out before exhaling on a sharp cry as he came over his own fist.

It was that punched-out sound that did it for Derek and he followed a beat later, semen painting the back of his hand and Stiles’ dick as well as he crowded back into Derek’s space, alternately licking into his mouth with intent and panting against it.

“Fuck, Stiles,” he sighed, wrecked.

“Oh yes please,” Stiles agreed with a shuddery sigh as he came down. “Just give me a minute.”

Derek snorted an inelegant laugh and slumped forward to press his face to Stiles’ throat. They stood like that for a long moment, Derek cataloguing every point of contact between them, the way Stiles’ pulse began to steady and slow, the weird way that things between them didn't actually feel weird. It just felt like coming home.

“I'm sorry,” Stiles said eventually, “I would have preferred to at least get you into bed before jizzing all over you.”

That startled a genuine laugh out of him and Derek felt Stiles jolt a little in surprise. “Feel free to do that anywhere you like,” he said magnanimously. “In private,” he amended hastily, cutting off a delighted Stiles whose eyes had lit up.

“Way to ruin all my fun,” he grumbled good-naturedly, then took a step back, seemingly content to just look at Derek where he rested back against the door, shirt rucked up over one hip and his jeans barely shoved open enough for his cock to have room as it softened. “The things you do to me,” he blurted suddenly, his heart in his eyes.

“Same things you do to me,” Derek told him honestly, before hesitating and looking down as he tucked himself away, but didn't draw up his zipper. “I-- you're it for me, Stiles,” he said quietly. “I'm not interested in dicking around, and I care for you too much to be something casual to you, so… I just needed you to know that before we went any further.”

“Nice to know we're on the same page, then,” Stiles said lightly, stepping back into Derek’s space, taking his hand and leading him down and into the loft. “The way I look at it, when you enter into a relationship you're either expecting it to be short and finite, or you plan on working on it until there's nothing left to work on, or you die. Obviously I'm not great at the whole casual thing, so it looks like you're stuck with me, buddy.”

Derek pulled Stiles to a halt and wrapped both arms around him, marvelling at the fact that when he turned his face to Stiles, Stiles’ lips parted without hesitation and met his to move intimately against them.

“I love you, you know,” he murmured, heart in his throat as Stiles stared back at him, the hint of a smile curling his lips. “So much that it makes my chest ache.”

“Honestly never thought I'd ever hear you say anything like that to me,” Stiles told him, shivering slightly as Derek’s hands slid down his back to rest low on his hips, possessive and close.

“I like saying it,” Derek murmured, allowing Stiles to manhandle him in the direction of the spiral staircase; towards the bedroom.

“I like hearing it,” Stiles smiled over his shoulder at Derek. “Guess that means we make a good pair.”

“Guess so,” Derek said with a smile, and followed Stiles upstairs.


End file.
